Wordzzle, too

I really like the Wordzzle game that Jay found over at Raven's site. Although I also wasn't in the mood to write anything today after exhausting 2 of my 3 brain cells on the light echo explanation, much less a story that has to follow rules, I nonetheless quickly spit out something with the required 10 words. I can see my rather dark mood has come across in this little story, but such is life. I'm trapped in the middle of the Southern Ocean, with no way out in sight and well, I'm in a pretty bad fucking mood because of it, if truth be told. So, with little more fanfare, here is my attempt at playing the game. I'm skipping the 5 word version to sulk in the corner with a cup of coffee and a smoke.

The man was a lunatic, of that I am certain. His hobby was killing people. Not his calling, or mission. He really didn't fit the definition of a serial killer; he simply killed when and if he felt like it. In fact, he also didn't fit the notion of a "signature killer", except that the methods he employed came exclusively from the books he read, mostly economic texts and science fiction. It was really just a hobby, as one might collect stamps, or plant flowers.

A tree hugger from Maine, picked randomly from a headline on a protest over a tree farm gleaned from a Google search on "Christmas trees" was buried alive under a stately pine in Oregon, jammed tightly into an antique chest and given two canisters, one labeled "air" and another, "CO2". Also found in the chest were a horse shoe (presumably for good luck) and note, stating that the victim was told that he had approximately 2 hours of air in the chest and canister and that the location of his burial would not be divulged to anyone for 24 hours. He was given the choice to die quickly and relatively peacefully by inhaling the CO2, or try in vain to ration the air in the canister to last 24 hours-an impossibility, of course.

Had he known that his victim had previously and successfully battled cancer and tenaciously held on to every moment he could wrangle away from the grim reaper upon hearing the news that his cancer was in remission, he might have chose another. Given the choice of a sure, though painless death, or a 10 billion to one shot at living off of the meager ration of air until rescued, he simply chose to fight, much as he had upon learning he was stricken with cancer. The mild-mannered tree hugger from Maine shattered his wooden prison and clawed his way nearly to the surface before suffocating. His hand, reaching for the sky, was found protruding from the earth, next to a marigold, planted atop the temporary grave by his killer.